28 February 2014

The final crown is now complete! And the first lines of each of the sonnets numbered fifteen to twenty-eight come together to form our second sonnet wreath. This one is aptly named 'Authority'.

Power: it’s all about the clout of wealth.
I want to make your choice and I can pay
for healing all my wounds, but not myself -
forgetting what the hell I tried to say
concerning subjugation by the state,
the apparatus of coercive law.
If we were richer, we could emigrate
and listen to rare starlings on the shore -
a chattering of hubris and conceit.
Below the doleful hum of coconuts
I reassess my errors and defeats.
My poetry is clearly going nuts!
What is a metre? Whereof do we speak?
Like mice on picket lines, I have a squeak.

21 February 2014

If we were richer, we could emigrate –
But where? The eagle’s spacious nest
is riven on itself; the bear’s estate
is busy scaring rainbows back out west.
The cattle? Their green pastures now are filled,
yet bare; the lambs see little sign of spring.
And all around the lake, each lair and field
is burning with the death-stare of a king.
Let’s not go there. Let’s take the doctor’s keys,
and sail away to somewhere Palanese;
We’ll tend with care at both ends of the trees –
comparing tips from beetles and from bees.
We’ll live the life we never dared before,
and listen to rare starlings on the shore.

18 February 2014

Forgetting
what the hell I tried to sayto you last
night, whilst passion raged, is notthe action
of a yellow-bellied sot –it’s just
a mechanism to allaythat
psychic breakdown of a cold new day.For those
three words encapsulate a lotof what
unites us, but also of whatdivides our
minds, leaves hearts in disarray.So let’s
just talk of far more simple things:begin with
shoes and ships and sealing wax,move on to
climate science, income tax,misuse of
the prerogative of kings.Then finish
with a fiercely-fought debateconcerning
subjugation by the state.RJT

16 February 2014

I want to make your choice and I can pay
for any damage to your skin or lungs.
There is responsibility that comes
from being both the predator and prey.
Dissected, disembowelled, and on display,
I try to shout but find my throat is numb.
You see, nostalgia's wasted on the young
and when the urges take me, I obey.
Abstinence is fine – if that's your thing –
but artificial virtue is eclipsed
by inclination. As she softly sings
I'll pass corruption on, through moistened lips.
Quitting lust is best (if done by stealth)
for healing all my wounds, but not myself.

14 February 2014

Ladies and gentlemen, the first crown is now complete, turning back on itself.Adorning this crown is a sonnet wreath, composed of the first lines of the fourteen sonnets comprising the crown:I want a hero ‒
but then don't we all?I see the hero deep
in all of us:a small, swift flame
to shield against the fallalone, into the cold
impervious.Can I be trusted? Will I heed the call?An
Englishman tries not to make a fuss ‒he
brings sweet moderation to the ball.Behind
their backs I tut at the unjust.I
will not take this bullshit any more ‒the
best thing you can do is be a man,contender
in no ordinary war,ignoring
anyone who has a plan.We
all must die, but then, who's keeping score?I'll
try to live a little while I can.

I'll try to
live a little while I canstill sing
the songs ‒
those lays of silver tongue;still walk
the walk ‒
that two-step of the youngpretender
(one who knows his stuff ‒
no 'whambam thank
you ma'am' in these quotidianaffaires
privées).
I know that Spring has sprungand
Summer's summed and Fall's fall has begun.A fiery and
uncommon courtesan ‒a Beatrice
burning for her Benedict ‒is what I
want, is what I need, is whatwill hide
my heart from Winter’s icy tricks.Yet
othertimes, I know that there is naughtbut simple
Claudio within my soul ‒I want a
Hero ‒
but then don't we all?RJT

08 February 2014

Behind their backs, I tut at the unjust,
Though I would never say a word aloud.
When you’re a coward, silence is a must.
It pays to learn to melt into the crowd.
My principles are only sand and dust
And I will only say what I’m allowed.
I may regard them all with some distrust
But still, in deference, my head is bowed.
Abuse is not the price we pay for love;
I can't just turn my head and let it be.
That iron fist inside that velvet glove.
I must act now, before they come for me.
Such platitudes! We've heard them all before.
I will not take this bullshit any more.

06 February 2014

An Englishman tries not to make a fuss,though wars and deprivation take their tollon the certainties that keep his people whole,that make this island nation glorious.An Englishman is never furious:he rambles through the country of his soul ‒a realm that's damned by drugs and rock 'n' roll,where tube strikes mean he has to take the bus,where single mothers struggle to survive,and sneering, twisted traitors poison love.Yet hope remains, and reason may still thrive ‒a citizen who's none of the above,but English, British, European all ‒he brings sweet moderation to the ball.RJT

04 February 2014

Alone into the cold impervious,
These shadows play behind my flitting eyes.
A demon dressed as man. A cruel disguise.
Automaton, spurred on by fear and lust.
Between two states of being is the cusp
And when one man is born, another dies.
With knuckles bloodied, I will improvise,
Where proud frustration mingles with disgust.
There may be no return from this dark state –
The earth behind me salted, barley burned.
Each stolen moment lived with brimming hate.
Respect taken by force but never earned.
I fear I may have further yet to fall.
Can I be trusted? Will I heed the call?

02 February 2014

I see the hero deep in all of us,I see the valiant warrior
confined,I see the wise and penetrating
mind,I see compassion, sympathy and
trust.I also see the hope that
turns to dust,the jealousy and fear that make
us blind,the bitter, broken face of
humankind,the angry, frightened, sad and
envious.It's tempting then to ask: 'Which
will prevail?The night or light? The chaos or
the calm?'But that struggle is what helps
to mould us all ‒a lesson learned for every time
we fail,and for every time the darkness
threatens harm,a small, swift flame to shield
against the fall.RJT

30 January 2014

In February 2012, four poets (myself, Leanne Moden, Russell J Turner, and Adam Warne) took it in turns to write a sonnet a day and post them up on this blog. We loved it. We also forgot that 2012 was a leap year, so we ended up writing 29.

To up the challenge, in February 2013, we wrote a Crown of Sonnets over the month. A crown of sonnets is where the last line of the first sonnet becomes the first of the second and so on, until the last line of the last sonnet is the same as the first of the first, and the whole thing goes full circle. This was even more fun, and really showed how we'd improved as poets over the intervening eleven months.

So what's the plan for this February? We're going to write two Heroic Crowns of Sonnets. This works like the crown above, but with the added rule that the final lines of each sonnet can be assembled into a fifteenth sonnet (or Wreath Sonnet, as we're calling it). Sound confusing? Well it is.

The great news is that you, the reader, don't have to worry about the rules too much – all you have to do is follow the blog here on blogspot, or on Twitter @28SonnetsLater, and feast on a sonnet a day to chase the blues away!A